


Christmas Toast

by Lov_pb



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Humor, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lov_pb/pseuds/Lov_pb
Summary: During the holidays, the White Collar office investigates a wine counterfeiting scam.





	1. Chapter 1

“What did you say?”

“I asked about your plans this week,” replied Neal.

“Oh.” Mozzie hesitated, radiating a hint of unease. Sitting at the dining table in Neal’s loft apartment, he placed his wine glass down on the table and leaned back in the chair. 

“You know I don’t celebrate Christmas.” 

Even benevolent Mr. Jeffries, in his Detroit orphanage, couldn’t soften Mozzie’s heartache when Santa failed to bring him a real family every year, and his time in foster care during holiday seasons was best left forgotten.

“You usually go out of town," said Neal, bustling about the kitchen fixing a late meal. Peter had kept him longer than usual researching their current case. “Where to this year?”

“This year I may hang around the city. I’ve been asked to join some associates for drinks on Christmas Eve.”

“Really? They must be quite interesting associates.” 

“Devlin has some hot information about an upcoming score. I can’t resist the invitation.”

“Devlin?” Neal failed to hide his surprise, earning a smug look from Mozzie. “ID Devlin and his forger community?” 

Mozzie nodded. “Times change; people change.”

“Moz, I’ve heard they hold an annual raucous holiday party on the West Side.”

“That they do; in fact, it’s become the talk of the town. One year, they even rented the Empire Hotel rooftop, the one with the magnificent view.” He paused, worried. “But wait, June will be out of town this year. You couldn’t possibly be planning to attend Devlin’s party. I don’t see you mingling with that uncouth crowd. Unless the Suit caught wind of the heist Devlin’s planning….”

Neal deftly flipped his crepe and reached for a plate. 

“No. Your paranoia gets the best of you sometimes. And Devlin is appreciated in very small units of time… and then only when we need his expertise. But have no fear,” Neal added with a wink, “I have several holiday options to consider.”

“I’m sure you do, mon frère,” Mozzie said. “Hey, did you put any cheese in that crepe?”

“I thought you weren’t hungry; I only made one… with French brie. Have I mentioned cheese enhances the flavor?”

“It does smell divine̶ ̶-”

“No problem,” interrupted Neal as he set down his dinner and picked up the mixing bowl. “It’ll only take a few minutes to whip up another pancake ̶-”

“Sans cheese.”

“Sans cheese, of course.” 

Neal opened the overhead cabinet. “Moz, how about chopped fresh herbs, spinach, and two tablespoons of your favorite liqueur added to the egg mixture?” 

“Thanks, Neal. Your creations are always fluffy, slightly crisp and evenly cooked.” 

Mozzie poured himself another glass of Spanish red Pagos Viejos, sighing with contentment. Happiness was having a best friend who, not only was a conman extraordinaire but a wine sommelier and superb cuisineir. If he could convince Neal to dump the Suit, life would be almost serene. 

Whoa! he thought. The ‘ho ho ho’ season must be sending subliminal messages. He would need to be more vigilant. Maybe he should change plans and head out of town, after all. 

“I didn’t ask you about your plans, Neal. Are you, perhaps, spending the holidays with Sara?”

Neal reply held a secretive smile. “I’ll let you know if she accepts the invitation.”

“Just be careful,” warned Mozzie. “No talk of our upcoming cons! She’s too cozy with the Suit.”

“You and I don’t have any upcoming cons,” answered his amused friend. 

“We do if I can convince you to join me in this lucrative new year project I’m pursuing. It’s right up your alley. Ditch the governmental brain-washing task masters and have some fun, Neal.”

“Speaking of governmental brain-washing task master, Peter and I are heading over to the “Grand Tasting” winter wine festival tomorrow.”

“At the Playstation Theater?” 

Neal nodded his head, as he used a pastry brush to oil an ultra-thin coating on the pan. If he hurried a wee bit, he might be able to enjoy his own crepe without having to reheat. 

“Fancy! The famous interior vineyard. World class wines, snazzy music, and artisanal hors d’oeuvres. Lots of fat cats will be showing their faces.”

“Yes, and so will Ashley Coventry, our mark. He has his own booth of vintage wines.”

“Are you getting closer to an arrest?” asked Mozzie, grabbing his plate from Neal and placing a napkin on his lap, contently settling in for his ‘after-drink’ dinner. 

His friend joined him at the table. 

“Peter is confident we’re very close. He wants to wrap this up before Christmas.” 

“Oh sure. Put some poor wretch behind bars for the holiday,” huffed Moz. “Make his celebration complete.”

Attempting to forestall Mozzie’s typical bluster against a certain special agent, displayed to hide a covert fondness for Peter, Neal grabbed his wine glass and motioned to his chum for a needed refill.

“A refresher, please,” requested Neal. He smiled. “And Peter is no Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Yeah, right!”

“Moz, you do know our quarry isn't Bob Cratchit struggling to put food on the table and provide for little Tiny Tim. He’s a multimillionaire, rare-wine connoisseur fleecing the general public with vintage fraud.”

“The same old wine in a brand new bottle. Lucrative scheme; we should work this one.”

With a glint of con artist appreciation in his eye, Neal responded. “He’s gone undetected for ten years. Amassed quite the fortune.”

Delighted, Mozzie set down his glass careful not to spill a drop, grinning and rubbing his hands together in glee. 

“That’s the spirit, Neal. I knew you weren’t lost forever.”

Neal laughed. “Count me out on this one, Moz, and your mysterious new year’s scheme. I have under two years left on my deal with the DOJ and I’m not ready to jeopardize it.”

Mozzie sighed. He drummed his fingers for a moment, looked at Neal and looked away. He then sipped at his wine. Neal half expected him to shake his head and say, “Neal, Neal, Neal, what am I to do with you.” But instead, his companion only nodded, not convinced. 

“Fine. But I think I’ll mosey over to the wine fest tomorrow to check it all out.”

Neal grabbed his plate, stood up and walked to the sink. “Perfect. I’m sure Peter would be delighted to have your input on Coventry’s modus operandi.”

As Mozzie sputtered in dismay, the consultant chuckled inwardly and began to clean up the kitchen debris.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing by the front doors of the PlayStation Theater, Peter Burke and his team were greeted by the facility guards. After showing their identification, the group was quickly guided through the entryway.

The building, renovated and reopened to the public in 2005, designed by famous architect David Rockwell, was known as an ideal setting for New York's hottest events. Able to accommodate over two thousand guests within 45,000 square feet, the PlayStation featured specialty lighting, lovely décor, VIP suites and impressive balconies.

If that wasn't enough, the venue boasted an 85 foot Times Square LED high-definition marquee to excite the outdoor crowds. All and all, a perfect setting for the northeast wine-tasting extravaganza of the year promoting the best selections from the world's grape growing regions.

"Impressive setting," exclaimed Brandon Blake, Peter's young probie agent, casting an awed glance around the room.  
Quickly checking one of the participant boards, he noted major vineyards, distillers, and sellers, including the prominent wine collector and connoisseur, Ashley Coventry, the Manhattan office's wine fraud suspect.

Neal smiled. "Your first time here?" he asked.

Blake nodded, a sheepish grin on his face.

"What! A young man like you," said Neal. "You need to expand your horizons, Blake. Ask Peter to allow you out of the office more often."

Unable to hide his exasperation, Peter rolled his eyes, lifting his head to the ceiling.

Neal motioned for Blake to look around. "Performances by well-known artists, special events and even Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve take place here."

Diana and Jones glanced at each other with amusement.

"We have a job to do, people." reminded Peter. "Coventry is probably eyeballing all the new clients he can fleece."

A mysterious but gregarious showman, known for amassing a vast fortune trading excellent wines, Ashley Coventry bought and sold the most exclusive Burgundy vintage. Respected for years by colleagues and clients, it wasn't until the past six months that one of his wealthy victims discovered several fake bottles in their collection. Enraged, the duped man hired private investigators who discovered a specific magnum of Bordeaux, at a wine tasting, from early twentieth century; a period that didn't have that Bordeaux variety! With perseverance and plentiful cash from their employer, they traced the magnum back to Coventry. His victim sought FBI assistance.

After two months of meticulous investigation, Peter had recently received a tip from one of Coventry's associates. Sending two of his agents to executive a search warrant at Coventry's home, he decided to drop by the festival with his team to reconnoiter the multimillionaire's festival sales.

"If we're lucky, any evidence found during the search today, combined with some useful information from the 'Grand Tasting' sommelier will give us enough cause for an arrest."

Peter's consultant, unlike the rest of team, appeared to be only half listening, taking in his surroundings.

"Neal?" Peter cleared his throat and spoke loudly. "You can give a guided tour later."

"Bon Jovi… Peter. The Eagles, Usher, Janet Jackson ̶ ̶ "

"I thought you were more of the Classical or Early Romantic era, kind of guy."

"It's important to be familiar with the cultural, social and intellectual contexts of all musical eras."

"Why?" asked Peter, assuming his usual pose. Back straight, hands on hips, his eyes began to rove across the immense interior of the room.

"You never know when a situation would require that information," replied his consultant.

Peter did not look convinced.

"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music," Neal quoted.

"Ah, Huxley," nodded the senior agent, frowning. "He took psychedelic drugs, you know." Rubbing his face, he glanced at Neal before giving the area another quick scan.

"Of course, you would zero in on that. Now back to music appreciation… have you ever thought about taking Music History 101 and 102? I could identify some noteworthy classes in the city."

"Wait. Let me give that some thought," answered Peter. Quick pause. "No."

"Peter, Julliard's has an Evening Division that offers exceptional music education to any of the general public; music history being one of the courses offered. In fact, the courses are taught only once per week." Neal added quickly, "If you left work at a reasonable time̶ ̶ "

"No! And Neal …"

"Yes?"

"You might try practicing the first inexpressible."

Neal grinned while Peter, hiding his own smile, gestured his group to move forward.

The theater interior was bustling with activity. Venue doors had been unlocked for early bird admittance on the first-afternoon session of the winter WineFest. Two hours prior, most of the front-of-house staff, including bartenders, security team, guest services, and festival clients, had been hustling to get everything set up. From the look of the venue, they were evidently successful.

Peter's group of law enforcement agents wandered past numerous white cloth-covered tables laden with empty wine glasses. Vendor and supplier booths, not only for wine but for cheese, fine chocolates, and assorted appetizers, tantalizingly lined the narrow aisles on the main floor. Billboards identifying regional and national wines, designed with striking holiday colors, were artistically displayed on the walls.

Peter promised himself he would ask Elizabeth if she wanted a ticket to attend the festival. Promising new contacts for Burke Premiere Events was certainly evident; his wife would be delighted.

Brazilian jazz played through the sound system as the group strolled past gift tables piled high with assorted baskets of delectable goodies. The music, sweetly enhanced by an in-house state of the art sound system designed by JBL, an elite American audio electronics company, added an atmosphere of excitement. A band, setting up for a live performance, occupied a discreet corner of the massive room.

"I need to attend these wine festivals more often," remarked Jones. "Come on, Blake, let's check out that area on the left-hand side of the room."

"The area with the tables of complimentary artisan foods," noted Diana with a straight face.

"Time's a wastin'." Casting a backward glance, Jones smiled. "Peter, we'll meet you back at the front door as agreed upon."

"Alright, Jones," said Peter as he stepped closer to Blake. "And, I know it's the season to make merry, but remember," directing his last words to the probie, "wine sampling doesn't start until my party on the twenty-fourth."

"Yes, Sir," answered Blake, before he turned to walk away. His departing whisper to Jones faintly heard as the two men trailed away.

"Agent Burke didn't say a word about complimentary food…"

"Ouch," remarked Neal. "I hope that last instruction about wine sampling doesn't pertain to your CI. There are some incredible vintage wines here."

"As if we could stop you," scoffed Diana.

Neal brushed off the remark. Settling his fedora on his head, he winked and walked off with a jaunty step, but not before telling Peter he would investigate the rear of the facility and meet him at Coventry's booth. Neal was hoping Mozzie, performing some delicate reconnaissance of his own, was waiting nearby with some timely information that would prove relevant to their case.

Peter and Diana shared an amused look before moving off to find their suspect's display of products.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks for the comments and kudos. Sure appreciate it.

"Psst… Hey Neal!" a familiar voice stage-whispered.

Quietly sighing, Neal turned away from the high-end Burgundian wine seller's table, laden with a delightful display of tempting samples and stepped back. Turning to his left, he spied Mozzie in a back corner, peering at him from a short distance, dressed in all black attire, a small, shallow, silver cup-like saucer dangling on a chain around his neck.

"Should I even ask why you're wearing a tastevin?" questioned Neal, quickly moving forward and approaching his friend.

"Not really; it should be obvious."

"That may be so but please enlighten me."

"No one questions a sommelier, Neal." Lifting his shiny, attractive saucer, the smaller man rotated it in the air. "I've been tasting and judging the maturity of the wine and," he waved his other arm, "blending in with the crowd."

Neal closed his eyes and shook his head.

"The vendors have been literally begging me to drop by their booths," Moz smugly boasted. "I'm having a grand ole time."

Seemingly flooded with uncharacteristic euphoria, beaming with delight, Neal's friend edged closer, his gait a bit unsteady.

Peering at him intently, Neal observed a slight rosiness to his complexion.

Mozzie shifted under Neal's scrutiny, eyebrows raised in smiling puzzlement.

"What?"

"Are you inebriated?" asked Neal, a small twinkle in his eye. "Please don't start waving a flag and dancing to a George Cohan tune. Just how many samples have you consumed?"

"Au contraire, mon frere. I assure you I've been carefully balancing my alcohol content with adequate consumption of celebrity chef goodies." Mozzie paused a moment, leaning in to whisper, "True culinary virtuosos; the food is superb. I hope you've been nibbling."

"Moz, focus! Did you find out anything about Coventry?"

"Coventry?" For a moment Mozzie seemed bewildered, his brows gathered together.

"Oh, of course. Come over here; we need some privacy." Taking Neal's arm, he urged him deeper into a cramped, unoccupied corner of the room, once again, twirling his tastevin. "Jean-Luc Gautier ̶ "

Neal nodded. "The festival judge and sommelier…"

"Yes… yes," the pseudo-wine professional added quickly. "I had a nice long chat with the man." He gave a long sigh. "Insufferable know-it-all… arrogant, but very astute and intelligent." Mozzie dropped his voice dramatically. "Seems ̶ "

"Hey, Neal. Caffrey?"

Both men startled at the voice behind, with Mozzie momentarily stumbling forward, as Blake stepped into view.

"Blake? I thought you were assisting Jones."

"We split up in order to cover more of the convention floor," said Blake. "Since you're the PlayStation expert, I came over to ask you how to access the backroom VIP Suites on the second floor."

"Good going, Neal," said Mozzie, hovering at the periphery of their personal space.

"Wait… what are you doing here?" questioned a puzzled Agent Blake. "Does Agent Burke know about this?" His normal congenial expression fading to sudden suspicion.

"Baby Suit…" murmured Mozzie.

"Didn't anyone tell you?" Neal interjected, "Peter invited Mozzie Haversham to join the investigation."

Looking a little crestfallen, Brandon appeared to assess the new information. Ignoring Neal, he turned to inspect Mozzie's odd outfit.

"You're undercover?"

"Listen, 'young Grasshopper'," said Mozzie crossly, "I don't have to explain ̶ "

Stepping in front of Mozzie, Neal squeezed Blake's arm in a gesture of friendly reassurance.

"Yes," he answered for his friend, dramatically lowering his voice. "He is… and was just about to provide me with a critical piece of information." Neal gave his mega-watt smile. "But let's not call attention here. "Why don't you find Peter, tell him I found Mozzie and I'll join everyone shortly."

The young agent frowned, noting the swarm of wine enthusiasts beginning to crowd their immediate area. Looking back and forth between the two conmen, he quickly crossed his arms appearing to come to a decision.

"We'll 'all' report to Agent Burke," he declared, his face and stance resolute.

Neal sighed, deciding it wasn't worth the effort to persuade Blake differently. As the trio began their walk toward Coventry's booth, he looked back, answering Mozzie's scowl of disapproval, with a passive shrug of his shoulders.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

After stopping by Table #10, Coventry's exhibit booth, laden with an ostentatious display of high-end Burgundies and Bordeaux bottles, Peter and Diana were informed that the wine dealer, himself, was currently giving a lecture in the VIP Suite upstairs. They quickly mounted the stairs.

"I wonder if Clinton heard about the food selection up here," chuckled Diana. "Tuna Tartar, Maine lobster, shrimp rolls, filet mignon," she read off the board, "my mouth is watering right now."

"And… Pate de mousse de fois gras," added Peter, with a remarkably good French accent. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes. The fattened liver of a duck" translated Diana. "I'm sure Caffrey would be happy to pontificate, in minute detail, about this cuisine delicacy. He probably eats it as a snack."

"Unbelievable. And he sneers at my deviled ham on stakeouts."

"I don't believe the two are quite similar, Boss."

Grinning at his agent, Peter said, "At least I don't have PETA up in arms over my eating habits."

Diana smiled back as Ashley Coventry's voice began to resonate throughout the elegant, fully carpeted and wood-paneled room.

"… and of course, your VIP ticket provides you a more relaxed atmosphere, away from the hustle and bustle of the main floor. In this luxurious, private suite, we hope you enjoy our twelve exclusive and high-end wine selections, along with the specialty hors d'oeuvres. You'll be able to mingle and talk to sellers, winery representatives and winemakers."

About thirty elite guests were gathered around Ashley Coventry, a tall, thin man with an unruly shock of dark hair. Dressed in a dark gray, custom-made suit and tailored dress shirt, the forty something-year-old, bachelor held his audience rapt attention.

"And don't forget the highly sought after swag bag, valued at over $500." Coventry chuckled, "Each item inside is individually wrapped. As a VIP guest, invitation-only status, you get to pick your color."

"What a bonus," muttered Peter, "an adult goodie bag. I wonder how much the VIP ticket costs."

"I hear the tickets can go as high as $1500 for this gala," answered Diana. "The swag bag enhances the 'wow' factor."

For a moment Peter stared at her in disbelief, giving a head shake. "I think I've changed my mind about buying El a ticket."

As Coventry noticed the two federal agents, he excused himself momentarily from his admirers and approached them directly.

"Well, hello Agent Burke," he said, offering Peter a congenial smile and a bow to Diana. "I didn't know you enjoyed wine festivals."

"You'd be surprised," answered Peter, returning the smile, "at how many different locales and festivities a federal agent will appear."

"Is this a social call? Or am I about to be questioned, once again?" Coventry motioned to the participants in the room. "You see I'm about to give a presentation on the regional types of wine. Can't keep my fan base waiting. My celebrity status has been quite the draw for this festival."

"We wouldn't want to inconvenience you, Mr. Coventry. I thought it would be a nice gesture on my part, since I'm attending the festival, to personally drop by to inform you that a search warrant was finally granted and served at your home this afternoon."

Coventry's smile faltered momentarily. "Really, Agent Burke. On what possible grounds?"

"An old business associate, Jeremy Ruppert, had some interesting information to provide during our questioning yesterday."

"What was it, Diana?" Peter turned to his agent. "Something about purchasing glue, paper, inkpads and corking tools."

"That's right," said Diana, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It seems some of these items are often used in doctoring wine labels."

"Imagine that." Peter shook his head. "But don't worry about us. No, Agent Berrigan and I will just step back and listen to your lecture. Will you, perhaps, be covering the eastern and southwest areas in France?" he asked. "Maybe Nouvelle-Aquitaine or Bourgogne; they hold a special interest to me."

Coventry stood there, staring at Burke, before moving away with a disdainful scowl.

Peter rocked back on his heels, a contented look on his face until Diana jerked her head, glancing over his shoulder. He turned to see Blake, Neal and (was that Mozzie) step into the ostentatious suite. The senior agent rubbed his hand across his brow, noting the beginning of a sudden headache.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologize that the next chapter will be delayed. I'm heading out for a temporary job out-of-state, leaving me little time for writing. Chapter 5 will be posted mid-March. I hope you'll stick with me! Big thanks to all readers!

"What's he doing here?" asked Peter, his voice incredulous.

He shook his head in seeming disbelief before darting forward, Diana at his side, in an effort to quickly intercept the new arrivals.

Peter's eyes quickly scanned the trio's faces before resting on Mozzie, noting the scowl, distinctive outfit and adornment on his chest.

"Peculiar way to beg for alms," said Peter. "Couldn't get Neal to spring you some pocket money?"

The smaller man rolled his eyes.

"Or wait, I know… you carry your own silver ashtray to public outings."

"Not even warm, Suit," sniffed Mozzie. "I happen to be sampling the taste and maturity of the festival's wine selection."

"For what purpose?" Peter questioned.

"Ah Moz," said Neal. "I think that discretion is the better ̶ ̶ "

"…part of value," added Blake, ever helpful to a fault.

Momentarily considering the advice of his companions, Mozzie shook his head.

"Thanks, gentlemen, but I've got this."

Pursing his lips, he leaned in, way too close for Peter's comfort, and waved his saucer, saying, "Before you embarrass yourself any further, 'Robert M Parker, Jr.'…"

Blake exchanged a puzzled frown with Diana, who shrugged in confusion.

"Who?" whispered Diana to Neal. "Care to translate for the bantam rooster."

"Robert M Parker, Jr.," Neal quietly replied, "known as the world's most powerful wine critic. Sets the prices for the new Bordeaux wines."

"…these saucers," Mozzie added, with a distinctly loud whisper, "are an essential utensil for wine-tasters, designed by Burgundian winemakers to accurately inspect the color and clarity of the wine." He tsked-tsked. "Do you need me to further edify and enlighten you on the subject?"

Peter responded with wrinkled brow. "Ohhh, you mean a tastevin. Is that what you're wearing?"

Neal glanced at Mozzie before turning his gaze down to the wine display table, a slight smile appearing on his lips.

"Little silver saucer, designed with a shiny faceted inner surface."

Mozzie glanced up in surprise as Peter continued a clarification.

"Concave bottom to catch as much available light as possible, reflecting it throughout the wine; a true necessity two hundred years ago in candle-lit wine cellars." The agent paused. "However, with the invention of modern electricity, it's worn mainly for tradition and has little practical value." He rocked back on his feet. "So I've been informed."

Mozzie sagged wearily against the nearest table but refused to be vanquished.

"I'll have you know I'm a member in good standing," he addressed Peter and the rest of his audience, "with the fraternal order of Bacchanalians, and hold the elite office of Commandeur," he ended with a bow.

"Neal," warned Peter, tossing him that look. "Why is he here?"

"Didn't you ask for his help, Agent Burke?" questioned Blake, becoming visibly agitated.

"Being dutifully impressed with Mozzie's wine expertise and Bacchanalians' membership," Neal hastily broke in, waving to cut Blake off, "I asked him to drop by the festival, scope out the lay of the land and talk to Judge Gautier. In all the confusion yesterday, I must have forgotten to tell you my plans," he added innocently, ignoring Peter's pointed glare.

"Did you find out anything," asked Peter neutrally, turning his attention back to Neal's irritating, but sometimes useful, confidant and partner in crime.

Taking off his glasses and rubbing bloodshot eyes, the conman nodded.

"I think I'm going to make your holiday a merry one, Suit. Jean-Luc Gautier might put up a public front about working alongside Ashley Coventry, but get the man alone, among a fellow sommelier, and he was happy to spill the beans."

Mozzie hiccupped, uncharacteristically steadying himself, once again, on the side of the table.

Narrowing his eyes, Peter scrutinized Mozzie intently before motioning him to continue.

"Seems Coventry isn't as popular as he makes out to be; rarely lets visitors into his home and office. He prefers to transact all his business via cyberspace or through a middleman." He paused, smiling devilishly. "And get this, Coventry asked him to discreetly send all empty Bordeaux bottles to his home. Not the first time he's requested this favor either."

Peter began to smile with an inner delight. Glancing at his crew, he watched Neal reach out, taking one of the sample wine bottles and stroke his finger, back and forth, over the label. The two men exchanged a look and brief conspiratorial nod.

"I believe we're done here," Peter stated. "Diana, would you brief Jones? Blake can catch a ride back to the office with him while you drop Mozzie off at June's."

"Wait a minute, Suit. I'm right here. And, I don't accept rides from just anyone."

"What do you mean, just anyone?" snapped Diana. "If Peter asks me to give you a ride back, you'll take the ride ̶̶ ̶ "

"Because we're concerned for your safety and grateful for the information you discovered," Peter finished for her.

"Well," Mozzie said, fully aware of Diana's glare and his own increasingly muddled thoughts, "only since you put it that way - I accept."

Stumbling a wee bit, he dutifully followed Diana who strode away without replying, Blake at her heels, looking over his shoulder at Neal, a troubled expression on his face.

"How inebriated is he?" asked Peter.

"Let's just say," Neal opinioned, "more so than usual imbibing during his evening visits to my apartment. Don't worry, Peter; Mozzie must have talked to Gauthier before he began any imprudent wine consumption."

"Let's hope so. So, tell me, is he really a member of the Chevaliers du Tastevin? I remember El mentioning it once or twice."

Surprisingly, his partner nodded assent.

"Card carrying," said Neal. "The Confrerie created branches throughout the world. The New York branch was created around 1939; there are some 2,400 members in the United States."

"Unbelievable. And you know this why… no, don't answer that."

As the two men began their exit from the VIP lounge, Peter looked over at Neal.

"What's bothering Blake?" asked Peter. "Looks like you stole his puppy."

"Nah. Probably didn't want to leave the festival so soon. He really enjoys the venue."

"Uh-huh. Do I need to talk to him?"

"No, Peter. We're good." Neal replied. "I'll… I'll fix any misunderstanding."

Neal's confident swagger and trademark smile did nothing to reassure his handler.


	5. Chapter 5

Walking past billboards displaying a fetching array of local wines, Peter and Neal veered left toward the aisle leading directly to the artisan food stations. Jones wouldn't be the only one in partaking of the venue's tasty and irresistible hors d'oeuvres.

Passing countless guests, slowly sipping, swirling or savoring handcrafted wines or busy perusing merchandise and bottles from regional vendors, the two men slowed down to enjoy the overall festive atmosphere.

"Well? Are you going to tell me the favorite vintage wines you sampled?" asked Peter, a twinkle in his eye belying his deadpan expression.

Happily inspecting the food sampling tables, nestled among rows and rows of prettily wrapped specialty gift baskets, Peter mentally prepped himself for the best method of attack. Sausages, pate, charcuterie, crostini smothered in oozing asiago cheese, jams, dips, and tantalizing desserts beckoned him forward.

"Wait a minute. Didn't I distinctly hear you tell our group not to drink alcohol beverages on duty?"

The agent looked up holding two discs of artisan sausage in smoky blackberry sauce, nestled in a napkin on his palm.

"You? Follow restrictions at a wine festival? Come on, Neal. Fess up!"

It was foodie heaven, thought Neal, carefully sidestepping Peter, and trying vainly not to bump into the crowd as he chose an offering of organic Mousse Aux Cepes to munch on.

"I want to purchase a nice vintage for El; you know she stocks her own selection at home."

"Which you obviously keep hidden from guests when she's not around."

Sputtering in amusement, Peter had to swallow a small portion of fiery-red Nduja salami, served on a dollop of lemony yogurt, before he could answer.

"If you're putting yourself in the role of guest… don't. You and Mozzie use my house as a revolving door."

"I'm offended," replied Neal, handing his partner a small fizzy elixir of Kombucha to ease his coughing.

"No, you're not," answered Peter, before downing the drink. Looking slightly bewildered of a taste that reminded him of ginger beer, he quickly snagged another one.

"Elizabeth would tell you that guest, acquaintance or friend, the art of hospitality is to make them feel at home even when you wish they were."

"Is that so? Well, when she's not there I operate under the Burke proviso, 'When hospitality becomes an art, it loses its very soul.'"

"Ah, then let me remove any fear you have in that matter, because honestly ̶ ̶ "

"Stop," motioned Peter. "Do you want a ride back to the office?"

"I did arrive with you, so yes," Neal nodded, "my plans were to return the same way." Reaching past Peter, he picked up a rosemary-lemon shortbread cookie. "I promise," he smiled, pantomiming zipping his lips and tossing away the key, "end of discussion about manners and etiquette."

"Good," replied Peter, "somehow I knew you'd feel that way."

Bypassing Neal's choice of sweet dessert, he singled out a decadent coconut cluster and a hazelnut truffle from Manhattan's Li-Lac before ushering Neal toward the imported wine department.

"El was reading recently about grape growing regions in Spain. Let's stroll over that way... and Neal?"

Neal looked up, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Try to point out some decent wines, in my price range, the ones a federal law officer can afford."

"Would you like to add a bit more clarification?" asked Neal, with that exasperating tone to his voice, before selecting some samples of Cracked Candy to place in his suitcoat pocket. They might come in handy to offer the two office file clerks. They were both vegan and adored anything sweet and cinnamon-flavored.

"Yeah. Consider average wine enthusiast and not sophisticated wine snob," instructed Peter.

Shaking his head, an amusingly pained look on his face, Neal readied himself to argue the merits of quality versus cost, and the positive relationship between price and overall enjoyment.

It was the least he could do for Elizabeth.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I can't believe you talked me into spending a ludicrous amount of money for wine. If it wasn't the Christmas season and the time for generosity…"

Sitting in the driver's seat, Peter grunted, gesturing erratically toward the small box in the backseat of his Taurus, prominently displaying two bottles of high-end red Rioja wine covered in bright gold wire netting.

"Whoa! Please watch the road, A. J.," Neal cried out, gripping the dashboard. "The Daytona 500 isn't until February. And seriously, don't you want to thrill your wife with a little extravagance?"

"I already bought her some lovely holiday gifts, if you must know; I don't need to bankrupt myself to toast Christmas dinner."

"You'll thank me later, Peter," answered Neal, a smug look on his face. "Elizabeth will be delighted with the Vina el Pison. Look, it goes well with all meat dishes, no matter how it's prepared. In fact, my personal recommendation is to pair the wine with a leg of lamb, stuffed with wild garlic, rosemary, and anchovies."

At Peter's look of despair, he added hastily, "Don't worry; I can provide her the recipe."

Neal turned on the radio station, choosing some holiday music, blatantly disregarding his partner's scowl and attempt to knock his hand away.

"Don't mess with the stations, Neal."

"Not many American aficionados get the chance to taste Atadi's top wine. Intense blackberry and coffee flavors; it has elegance and complexity. Peter," Neal added, "only 600 bottles make it across the ocean every year, and showing off a wine that's different to friends and family will make Elizabeth's day."

"And you know this how?"

"She shares her wine enthusiasm with Mozzie; they've discussed their preferences in great detail.

Silence greeted his statement.

"Really?" Peter flinched slightly as he said the words.

Neal glanced over at Peter and pursed his lips, nodding his head sincerely.

Looking out the front window, Peter remained lost in thought for a few minutes, and then suddenly grinned.

"Finger Lakes," he said, hitting the steering wheel with delight.

Neal's face was blank, scrubbed of expression but his voice held a trace of caution and amusement, as he asked, "Peter?"

"Upstate New York; east coast Napa Valley. As soon as the weather is nicer, I'm taking El to 'Geneva on the Lakes.' Scenic allure, luxury resort, wine tastings… all the markings of a perfect gift."

Giving a light punch to Neal's shoulder, Peter added, "thanks for the tip."

"Sure, replied his companion, rubbing at an imaginary bruise inflicted. "Anytime."

Peter turned up the volume on the radio, flooding the car with '"Feliz Navidad."

"Mozzie's info about the empty Bordeaux bottles added more ammunition to our investigation. With his associates testimony, Coventry's credit card records for past purchases and what our team finds at his house…"

"Inkpads, glue, paper ̶̶ ̶ "

"Yes," replied Peter. "Let's get back to the office and see how quickly our Christmas celebration will begin."

"Feliz Navidad. Feliz Navidad. Prospero ano y felcidad," sang Neal, in perfect tone and pitch, complimenting Jose Feliciano. His blue eyes sparkled as he motioned to the older man.

"I want to wish you a Merry Christmas. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas," chanted Peter, chiming in with gusto in his strong, pleasant voice. "From the bottom of my heart."

The two, strikingly different singing voices, blended together in a delightful and unconventional vocal harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was happily able to post much sooner than I originally thought. The last chapter will be appearing in the coming weeks. Thanks to all for your support.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to complete a "Christmas" story. I promise to do better this year...

Refilling the tray of Caprese-stuffed mushrooms, Peter chuckled, seeing something across his dining room that amused him. Young probie Blake was backed against the wall, arms folded tight across his chest, and jaw tight. Deep in conversation with Neal, he looked stricken with an intense case of social anxiety.

Blake had intentionally been avoiding his consultant since the man's arrival, but it looked like there was now no one to rescue him from his dogged pursuer. When it came to confronting and resolving a personal issue, Neal could be like a dog with a bone. Thinking about dogs, Peter suddenly wondered what mischief Satchmo was up to in the backyard. Being locked out of a party usually resulted in the retaliation of gaping holes dug in the back lawn.

El entered the dining area, arms laden with a huge platter of cilantro lime salmon appetizers, sporting a sparkling red party dress. Peter caught her eye, motioning his wife over, while popping one of the portabella caps, oozing with mozzarella, in his mouth.

"Look at Neal over there," he mumbled, enjoying the classic flavor combination of tomatoes, cheese, olive oil, and fresh basil topped with balsamic glaze, "hon, he finally captured his prey."

Playfully slapping his hand away as he reached for another hors d'oeuvre, uttering a quiet plea to leave some food for their guests, Elizabeth gracefully placed her own plate down on their linen-laden sideboard table, heaped with finger foods.

"I don't have to look, Peter," she replied surreptitiously, taking a few moments to artfully arrange a multitude of cucumber slices, piped with a tangy whipped salmon spread. "Neal told me he hadn't meant to upset Brandon at the PlayStation Theater and wanted to clear up any misunderstanding."

"You mean Neal… being Neal, equivocated and misdirected one of my young agents, when questioned at the venue, and is now feeling guilty."

El nodded, surprised Peter knew the details.

"I figured that's what happened," said Peter, "but Blake forgot office rule number one, relating to Neal."

Elizabeth raised a quizzical eyebrow, her sparkling blue eyes shining brighter than the shimmering Christmas dress she wore.

"When in doubt about Caffrey's answers, don't."

"Don't what?" she asked.

"Accept it. If Neal is beaming, being extra chummy, pressuring you to consider doing or buying anything… no matter what, that's the time to be extra vigilant. When in doubt verify the facts and the world will be a much saner place."

"Better safe than sorry, huh?" asked Elizabeth, her lips curled in a smile as she reached up and straightened his extravagant holiday tie, gently brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead.

"Exactly. And it was really a good lesson to learn in a non-hostile, controlled environment."

"Well, be that as it may, I believe Neal is anxious to mend the fences; he really enjoys working with Brandon."

"Did Neal tell you how he planned to accomplish this?"

"Something along the lines of a simple apology and a peace offering gift."

Peter's turn to raise his eyebrow. "Peace offering?"

"Two tickets," Elizabeth replied, "for the upcoming, sold-out Rhianna concert at the PlayStation. Seems Brandon was quite captivated by the concert venue."

"Bribery," Peter muttered, a dismayed look appearing on his face.

"No, Peter. It's Christmas," said his wife, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. "I think it's sweet."

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, Peter nodded his head agreeably, offering his wife a gentle hug.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

With a slight tremor in his hands, Mozzie placed his gift on the porch floor and straightened his Christmas bowtie. Attired in his favorite gray suit jacket, a bright red handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket, he had been vastly overdressed for Devlin's tinsel shindig.

He should have realized that Devlin's pals, the 'Mountebanks of Manhattan' were too uncouth to dress up for a holiday party. The go-to-forger, of course, had outshone his flimflam crew, but even he had worn an atrocious red and green sweater, lettered 'Fruitcake' in a shiny metallic text. Mozzie shuddered at the memory.

Devlin's venue had been a slice of old New York, located in a premier private-party space. But 'The SpeakEasy at the Gin Mill' just hadn't provided enough of a holiday warm fuzzy. Maybe that was what prompted him to arrive on the Burke's front doorstep. It had little to do with Mrs. Suit's sweet personal phone invitation, of course.

Knocking rather loudly on the wreath-bedecked door, it was opened immediately by a smiling Neal Caffrey, wearing a fetching Windsor Base textured peak-lapel tuxedo jacket, a boutonniere of holly and red bowtie.

"Hey! Come in, Moz. You look great; very festive."

"Did the Suit make you the doorman for the evening?" asked his friend, peering carefully around his friend, quickly noting the decorated home, large Christmas tree, lighthearted ambiance, and assorted guests. "Neal, is it actually safe for me to be here? Elizabeth begged me to come but the rooms are filled with feds!"

"No one here you don't know. Consider it Christmas dispensation, all right?" Neal answered comfortingly. "Even Peter was asking when you'd show up, but I thought you had plans with Devlin and his crew. Did it go okay?" The younger man looked concerned.

"After hearing their plans to bilk a Belnap Oil and Gas Company," Mozzie whispered, "I asked some rather pointed questions. It was a long-term con, inside man being the office manager, involving a multitude of forged checks and fraudulent ordering of office supplies and inventory. I, ah, chose to politely back out."

"Security fraud." Neal nodded. "Was it the timing or the participants that dissuaded you?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Might have to do with the fact I learned the company president just happens to be a cousin to one of the most influential American Cosa Nostra. I told Devlin he was an idiot to even consider it."

"Ahh… wise decision," stated Neal, leaving it at that.

"I don't see Sara. Isn't she coming?" asked Mozzie, still scanning what he could see of the guests exchanging gossip.

"Last minute plans to visit her parents," answered Neal, a momentary sadness crossing his face. "We'll get together for New Year's."

He smiled, hastening to lighten the mood.

"Mozzie," exclaimed Elizabeth, stepping up to greet her tea friend, bestowing a quick peck on his cheek. "I knew you'd come; I told Peter so. Come join the crowd in the living room."

Mozzie went pink, handed her a gaily wrapped bottle of wine and cleared his throat. "Umm… sure. Thank you for inviting me."

The trio walked forward, Mozzie casting a panicked expression Neal's way.

"Another guest arrived," declared Elizabeth as she drew the two men into a circle of people, including Peter, Jones, Diana, senior agent Hughes and their entourage.

"Haversham," acknowledged Hughes, fixing him with a steely look. Peter and the other guests greeted the newcomer, as the little man inched closer to Neal and began to rock back and forth on his sneaker-clad toes, seemingly readying himself for a quick get-away.

"As I was just telling Burke and the others," said Hughes, "I'm pleased with everyone's work on the wine fraud. After finding a top-line counterfeiting workshop during our property search, over 20 shipments of empty bottles to Coventry's homes, and the tips from the Wine Fest judge and associates, we have a rock solid case. Discovering the two aliases, he often used to sell his wine, was also a bonus. The the prosecutor called me quite pleased."

Hughes' group smiled.

"Thank you, sir. I heard Coventry's ready to plea bargain," said Peter. "Seems he feels his clients, being wealthy, really weren't victimized to any extent since they had plenty of cash to throw at bogus wine."

"Too late to put the cork back in the bottle," muttered Mozzie.

"Vino Veritas?" Hughes directed back, a hint of a smile softening his normal austere expression.

At Mozzie's astonished expression, the SAIG quirked a brow. Without mentioning the odd little man's contribution, it was evident he included him in his thanks.

Leaning into the circle, Elizabeth placed a glass of ruby red wine in Mozzie's hands, as Peter put a hand on Neal's shoulder and gently directed him away from the others.

"Hughes is pleased," said Peter, "and I believe Mozzie was taken aback. Reese wouldn't outright mention his contribution, for the sake of anonymity, but he appreciates it nevertheless.

Neal picked up his wine where he left it on the bookcase. His glass halfway to his mouth, he lowered it again. "Moz would refuse any public acknowledgment; he chooses to believe his help only benefits me."

Neal watched Peter demolish one of the hors d'oeuvres Diana had brought and handed him some napkins.

"Does Elizabeth know you're taking her to the wine tasting at Finger Lakes?"

"Nope. The certificate is wrapped and under the tree."

"I'd like a trip out of my radius and a stay at an Italian-style villa on Seneca Lake," Neal said with a wide grin. "Any wrapped gifts for me under the tree, Peter?"

Responding with a heavy sigh and roll of eyes, Peter said, "If there is, it doesn't include upstate New York, wineries or vineyards."

"Wait! You didn't exclude a gift or a trip out of my radius ̶ "

"Neal…"

"What'd you get me, Peter? Will I like it? Better yet, tell me Elizabeth picked it out."

"I picked it out, you have to wait until Christmas Day to open it and yes, you'll like it."

Peter adamantly refused to give Neal any additional clues about his gift, irritating his partner with a smug little smile. He wouldn't admit it but he was delighted to have snagged a gift that would delight him.

Tomorrow, Neal would find VIP tickets to New York's premier art fair, The Armory Show, held at Piers 92 & 94 on the Hudson River. Pretty hard to obtain, the venue, not only outside Neal's radius, was an annual top draw for all art lovers, showcasing nearly two centuries of art history.

The merits of quality versus cost mentality.

Peter remembered what Neal had argued in the car. For the agent, it wasn't about buying the most expensive things or having to be fancy, what was important was providing a special gift to show appreciation for the phenomenal people in your life


End file.
